


Verdant Rain

by AmnesiacFloozy (AlleyCatSunflower)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Conversations, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Friendship, Gen, Pre-Canon, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:41:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29259900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleyCatSunflower/pseuds/AmnesiacFloozy
Summary: "In my land of home, the new year is born in spring, when day and night have the same length. That is also when the children of spring are one year older." Petra smiles reminiscently. "I am a child of summer. My birthing was after the longest day, but the longest day is when I celebrate my day of birth.""I suppose you would call me a 'child of summer' as well, then."Somehow, Petra feels that she has learned something no one else knows—Dedue is so solitary, she is certain that no one else has asked to know his birthday—and smiles a little more widely. "Then in Brigid, we would count our years on the same day."
Relationships: Petra Macneary & Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	Verdant Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Because these two deserved supports. Fight me.

Petra is staring at the tranquil pond, longing for the sea, when a drop on her head startles her. And then more and more, falling into the water with a silver sound like tiny bells.

It doesn't rain much in the summers of Brigid, but Fódlan named this month for the weather. Glancing at the sky as the water falls harder, Petra hurries to the greenhouse in search of shelter. The air is more humid here than in Brigid, but warmer than outside. Most of the other students seem to find it unpleasant to stay here for too long, but Petra likes the things that remind her of home.

It takes Petra a moment to notice, but she is not alone. One man, another student, is tending the flowers farthest from the door. That is… Dedue. Yes, Petra is sure of it. She has seen him often, but has rarely heard his voice. From what she can tell, he keeps his distance from most others. She has heard whispers of tragedy and Duscur, but it does not seem to her that Dedue himself has done anything wrong.

Approaching, Petra watches him tend the flowers for a time. She worries that she might disturb him, but he does not so much as glance her way. So she focuses on the flowers instead. They are beautiful, but something about them looks almost dangerous. It might be their colors, still so vivid even though the clouds have smothered the sunlight.

"Are those flowers from your land of home?" The question slips out before Petra can stop it.

Dedue glances over at Petra in surprise. He must have known she was there, but perhaps he did not expect her to speak. "They are."

"They have beauty."

"Yes," says Dedue, and there is silence, except for the rain. It makes a pleasant noise against the glass, but shows no sign of stopping. Petra glances up uneasily. Windows are commonplace, but she is not used to transparent walls, like an invisible shield between her and the weather.

Dedue traces Petra's gaze and, to her surprise, is the first to speak again. "Did you come here to find shelter from the rain?"

Petra nods a little hesitantly. "I am still not…" There is a word or phrase for being accustomed to something, but she does not know it offhand. "I do not have understanding of the seasons in Fódlan." That is not quite what Petra means, but it is enough to suggest her intention. "Here, this moon has the name of Verdant Rain, but summer does not have much rain in Brigid."

"Is the calendar different in Brigid?" asks Dedue, returning to his work, though Petra can tell from the way he looks at her out the corner of his eye that he is interested in her answer.

"Yes," says Petra, struggling against feelings of wistfulness. She misses her culture daily, but she did not realize until this moment how much she missed speaking of it, too. "Our moons are… were being given the names of spirits. This moon is Leòmhann. The sun has much fire in the summer of Brigid, so he has the shape of a cat, to be basking in the light." She looks at the flowers, eyes catching on one with five petals. "His moon is the fifth."

"Interesting," says Dedue, and though his expression does not change much, he sounds like he means it. "If this is the fifth moon in Brigid, your year must begin later than that of Fódlan, correct?"

Petra nods. "In my land of home, the new year is born in spring, when day and night have the same length. That is also when the children of spring are one year older." She smiles reminiscently. "I am a child of summer. My birthing was after the longest day, but the longest day is when I celebrate my day of birth."

"I suppose you would call me a 'child of summer' as well, then."

Somehow, Petra feels that she has learned something no one else knows—Dedue is so solitary, she is certain that no one else has asked to know his birthday—and smiles a little more widely. "Then in Brigid, we would count our years on the same day."

"That seems reasonable," says Dedue. It is not a word Petra would have thought to use here, but she supposes it fits the situation. "I do not have any special regard for the date of my birth. To me, it is a day like any other. I might be more inclined to celebrate, like the other people of Fódlan do, if it benefited others as well."

Petra can't help but be disappointed that the day of celebration is already over and done, because they missed their opportunity to celebrate it together. "The longest day is past, and summer is here. But fall is not so far from now, and that has a festival too." She smiles. "We are not childs… _children_ of fall, but will you be dining with me on the equal night?"

Dedue's expression hardens as if he has just remembered something that makes him feel cold inside, and Petra's smile falters at the ice in his eyes. Has she said something wrong? "I am a man of Duscur."

"Yes," says Petra, nonplussed. Dedue's response is not an answer. What do their nationalities have to do with sitting and eating together? "And I am a woman of Brigid. Does this have meaning?"

Petra does not know how to take Dedue's silence or the way he looks at her, but after a pause, he gives a sigh as if resigned. "If you have spent so long speaking with me already, I suppose you do not share the Kingdom's opinion of my kind. Or the others' caution about their reputation."

Whatever Petra might have said about the idea of Dedue damaging her reputation—most others already think of her as a savage, or at best an exception to a savage rule—is overwritten by his choice of words. "Your… kind?" echoes Petra. There was a time when she would have thought Dedue meant kindness, but she has heard the same words in conjunction with herself too often to believe it now. "Are you not human?"

"Many do not think so."

The words strike a chord in Petra's heart, and she has to deliberate for some time before she can express her thoughts. Even then, she must rein them in. Though others may approach her with ridicule or even hostility, she must respond only with friendliness, for the sake of Brigid. So she bites her tongue and tries to ignore them, but now, she scowls. "People of Fódlan have much cruelty."

"All humans can be cruel, if it benefits them," says Dedue, straightening up, and meets Petra's eyes. She has his full attention now, and though he towers over her, it does not frighten her. His expression is warmer now; not like the greenhouse, but like the rain outside it. "No matter where their homeland may be. Evil is not unique to one people."

Petra wants to agree, but the last word throws her off. "One… people?" she asks, confused. "'People' are more than one person, yes?" That was one of the first words she learned. Fódlan has such odd grammar.

"'People' can also mean 'culture'," says Dedue, and Petra makes a mental note that the words of Fódlan can be used in many different ways. "That was how I intended it."

"You speak with the language of Fódlan well," says Petra, impressed. "I have hope that I will speak with as much… as much…" She trails off, trying to remember the right word. Something that sounds like flowing, like the words Dedue speaks. "Fluidicy."

"Fluidicy," repeats Dedue, brows contracting in a slight frown. "Do you mean 'fluency'?"

"Y-yes, that," says Petra, feeling herself blush at her mistake, and stares at the flowers with determination, as if that will somehow undo what she said. "I have gratitude. I was not remembering the name."

"This language is a difficult one," says Dedue, looking at the same plant, perhaps trying to find the point Petra is staring at. "I believe I am only fluent because I grew up speaking it. I have fallen somewhat out of practice with my mother tongue, since no one here understands it."

Petra frowns, looking back up at Dedue again. "The tongue of your mother?"

"We were born of our homelands as well as our parents," says Dedue, as levelly as ever. "And we speak with our tongues."

"Oh!" exclaims Petra, smiling as she understands. "That phrase has music." She is excited enough at the prospects of hearing about another language that her sentiment almost comes out in her own mother tongue, but she forces it to come out in the words they share. "Does your language have music as well?"

"The language of Duscur can sound harsh to those who do not know it," says Dedue. "But I think it beautiful."

"I have sureness it is," says Petra, with confidence, because any language can be beautiful in the mouth of a master. There is a brief pause before she adds, more cautiously, "I have desire to hear it someday."

Bowing his head, Dedue closes his eyes briefly. "There are few left to speak it."

"You are here," says Petra, and Dedue looks at her again. "If you have desire to speak with the language of Duscur, I will listen. There is…" Words are beginning to elude her, as usual. The longer the conversation, the less likely she is to be able to hold up her end of it. "There is no need to be hurrying."

Dedue crosses his arms and lets out a breath. "My skill at speaking may have waned, but I do still write in the language of Duscur from time to time," he says, his voice a little lower, as if telling a secret. "When I am certain no one else will read it."

"Yes," says Petra, nodding emphatically as she thinks of her journal. "The language of Brigid has a… has words…" She frowns, raising a hand to mime scribbling in midair. "Writing! Has writing of itself… its own." Petra presses her lips together, flustered at how many mistakes she made in such a short span. Perhaps it is time to cut this visit short.

"There is a separate script from that of Fódlan?"

"Script?" asks Petra, surprised, and forgets her fleeting thought of leaving. "We have no scripture."

"No, the text," says Dedue, without so much as a hint of impatience. "The people of Brigid write their language using different characters. Shapes," he adds, seeing Petra's question before she asks it. "Is that it?"

"Yes," says Petra, relieved. "You have greatness of understanding, Dedue. Your patience gives me gratitude."

Dedue blinks. "I am only listening."

Petra shakes her head. He must know that listening is not a guarantee. Most others here do not care about her words or her people. "You have much gentleness, Dedue. I am liking our talk greatly."

"I… thank you," says Dedue, looking at a loss, and Petra thinks she must be the first person to see him falter. She takes a moment to look at him, more boldly than before. Though he is older than Petra by some years, he is still young. His face is stern, but his eyes are deep and thoughtful. Even his stature is not as intimidating up close as it seems at a distance.

Not wanting to be caught staring, Petra stirs herself reluctantly out of her thoughts, glancing at the clear glass roof. "The sky has not so much rain now," she says, surprised at the shyness of her own voice. She does not feel especially timid around Dedue anymore, but her tone is as if she is afraid of breaking the silence. "I should be leaving."

Dedue looks out at the weather, as if having lost track of it. "If you wish."

"I have gratitude for the talking," says Petra, resting a fist on her heart, and curtsies just as she was taught, though keeps her eyes on Dedue's face. "I would be liking more soon. If being here gives you enjoyment, I will be coming here again."

Though Dedue does not quite smile, his expression relaxes, and Petra finds herself admiring the wary softness in his eyes. Perhaps they can be friends, however unlikely. "Until next time, then."

**Author's Note:**

> I _wanted_ to write something way shippier, but I had to write a C-support-level conversation first to get a feel for their interactions, at least in my head. The next thing I write for them, and oh boy there'll be a next thing, will probably be less G-rated.


End file.
